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Best Pole Poems

Below are the all-time best Pole poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Pole poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Pole Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Pole poems are below this new poems list.

PRISONERS OF THE NORTH POLE by Baniti, Nailah
Christmas Panic at the Pole by Labadie-Reilly, Liz
Cane Pole by Clark, Jack
A Pole Jumped Out In Front Of Me by Ellison, Jack
This Little Pole Boy by Mojahed, Kasra
Life is Like a May Pole by Dietrich, Andrea
North Pole going South by Bear, Mama
Pole Dancer by Lamoureux, Richard
Pole dancer physics by Human, Daniel
CONNECT PS POLE by Devnath, BL

View all new Pole Poems

The Best Pole Poems

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Plethora of Poetry

~STRIP TEASE~     Featuring:) SKAT

Silver Skimpy Ink, String, A POET DESTROYER's bling, bling
Think of me as a human ditty delicious decoration,
Something along the line of a sweet tooth temptation
Cherry tastes, between the slit of tender toast 
Fine jumble jam slams down the tongueless throat 
Dance like a diamond on The tight South Pacific Rim
I'll feed you with a slithering seductive sound
My hair soaking, -wet and wild, tonight I trim
A dulcet apple acrostic bottom, to squeeze the greed
Feathers, on top, poetic diction describing to please
At times, I'm in deep dire need of something sweet, and sour 
Endless epic words, and ode to the naked poetic world
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, the freaking awesome
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)

---

Symbol of the spiritual Sexy SKAT Slang
--Provocative-- A slippery succulent, scrumptious kiss 
Counterparts working the tension, another arrant appetite
I am the Illuminati illusion, laminating luscious illustrated letters  
Indulging in the, satire of one stilt spoken sunset
Like a child's spiking temperature, I often throw tantrums, 
Teasing attentions, by incorporating a pole, paper and pen, 
If someone is uncomfortable with facing the fact, 
When I reveal everything, without removing my high heels
Then you must not be worldly or women and man enough 
I love to spoil and slur my scenery, using my best assets
My strength and power parallel, any unique universe 
That's how confident the audience makes me feel
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, fantastic and fabulous
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)


~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014

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The Elves Snow Party


Away up north where it’s snowing they say
the elves are preparing for Christmas day.
Big elves little elves, busier than bees
All building toys, for under Christmas trees.

Some work with hammers others building bikes,
some riding through the room on brand new trikes.
Tiny elf voices ringing loud and clear,
everyone’s full of love and Christmas cheer.

Suddenly the chatter stops; all are still,
Santa walked in the room with book and quill.
Looking down at his book, Santa Clause stared,
then lifted his eyebrows as he declared,

Today I looked inside my books
and I found that we are ahead,
and thought because you worked so hard 
we shall all go outside instead.
Misses Claus made lots of sweet treats
so let’s all eat and be hearty,
for today here at the North Pole
all elves shall have a snow party.

Quick as a wink the elves they disappeared,
Santa just smiled as he tugged at his beard.
Laughing he watched his little friends scatter
and soon the mountains echoed with laughter.

Snowballs were flying, snowmen taking form,
and hot chocolate kept little elves warm.
They were sledding, skiing, skating all day,
see, elves aren’t simply, all work and no play.



Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
11.29.2014
Contest: Children’s Christmas or Holiday Tale
1st place


Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

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Magic Beans


It was magic beans you placed in my hand as we held
Ones you nurtured,  embedded deep within your love
I know because it tormented me with euphoria planted
Stalked me earnestly  with your charming advances
You know I climbed walls 'til next you stood at my side
 
When you  occupied me and I  began to grow, the eclipse 
Was gigantic, extraordinary, a wanting wildness sublime
You were my mystical hen, the one who laid Golden Eggs
You made our home a  majestic castle suited for royalty
 
It was magic beans you infused in my hand as we held
Made me spin searching for a long pole to slide down
Escape with you  my loving wife from the Giant Ogre 
Inside me, I who feared commitment, a long time alone
But now you are the only enchantress I need or crave
 
And when it is my turn to die, take with me to the grave
The feel of you deeply rooted beyond my meager frame
From the soil above my coffin will grow beyond the sky
The largest plant with leaves shaped in awe of our lives
Steps beyond the clouds you'll find me playing my harp
 
An angelic music and song that will herald our union
Speak of our story in fable for children's open ears
Adapted to capture their imaginations, inspire them
Lift a glass in cheer to magic beans entrenched in you


01~12~2015
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A 
Contest Name: Magic Beans 



Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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A Friendly Goodbye


Poem 1: A Boy And His Painted Piano

he used lively greens
tender blues,
touches of plain mauve 
and rainbow trout splatters
to paint music
on the gas fumes 
that inhabited the clean air
that once use to live there.

he made the ugly decaying
neighborhood i lived in
bearable on even the worse of days.

he was the soft harmless rays of a comforting sun
and responsible for the smiles that broke through
the usual dismay on the faces of seven to ten year olds
already sold on the idea their life expectancies  were
somewhere in the low twenties.

life isn't always about the new iPhone being released
he represented hope.
hope that someone could make it out of the sewers and return
to free the whole chain gang presently locked firmly to a large solid steel post.

even in the dingiest basements of the worst streets
somehow, a whiff of hope threads through the tar laden atmosphere 
and children rise above the manhole covers
that would otherwise maim their existence and keep them
buried below the impossible dream. 

luckily there is always a don quixote who sees beyond
the all too real windmill set to blow others away?

Poem 2: A Street Puddle

what story hides
in this street puddle
what do the reflections want to recite.

one broken flower lies on the wet tar.

the wall cracks from the very bottom to the top
sitting there are black boots quivering 
stalked by white boots with their bully badges yelling "comply"
blind to the co-operation to their commands. deaf to pleas of mercy
as black rubbers fall 
as the wall echoes their cries
three boots stand and you wonder where lies that fourth boot.

do the mass boots of all kind even care
black feet walk as their words float
to fill the air drawing on the sky "no justice no peace"!
time passes, deceptive winds clear the atmosphere and...
weeds grow through the concrete to climb the walls
you can see the shadows large against this impromptu screen
and nothing changes. white boots rule.

Poem 3: In The Beginning 

I have always been here.
I was here when you turned the Earth's Stomach.
When it regurgitated your acid tongue
              stripped the land of its roots and nothing grew.

When you thought you could just skate through 
but instead fell through the lake and froze the Planet
from one pole to the next.

When you cheated the Sun of its permanent spot.
Had it not been for romance who placed 
an infinite sparkler in the night sky
who orbited earth barely clad in her white night silk dress
you might of owned time.

I was here
when you flooded the land
but you hadn't counted on 
the amoeba
everything changed and you retreated 
to your original pit of fire.

maybe you could deal in souls
you knew what was coming
when the heavens opened
and released the winged guardians

so here we sit
the best i can hope for is
balance
fifty/fifty 
good and evil
I'll take my chances with those odds.

Poem 4: A Boy And His Wooden Dragon

a detailed wood carving of a dragons bust leads an ancient 
                                                     ship through an unforgiving storm.

if this replica could only breathe fire like the ones in children's tales

still 
         his face is lifelike, ferocious!

one could swear trails of smoke escape from his nostrils,
  i am convinced his eyes are real emeralds.
          
                          the waves against the metal ship, 
                              the salt that dissolves the rust, 
                                 flows over the dragons neck,
giving one the impression the creature is bleeding.

old wood has no life flow...
                            ...does it?
    no pump to circulate sap
                                  but!...
...i'm convinced this inanimate portrayal is leaking vital fluid.

the craftsman's hand has...,
perhaps...,
a long shot to say the least...,
maybe?,
given his formation...

can the craftsman's artistic soul be so intense as to breathe 
a half life into his meticulously chiseled creation?
how much power does the real artist?...

on a more practical line of thought,
                                                         will we survive?

"who cares" i think "that decision rests not in my hands."
so...
half cocked 
i foolishly climb the dragons neck.
i remove my shirt to use as a tourniquet.
i apply it to his gushing neck in an attempt to heal him.
the whole time stroking him in a calming manner 

suddenly he releases a breath 
he opens his jaw wide
and exhales fire equal to that of a volcanic eruption.

and just like that 
the storm stops.
the sky flashes his baby blues.

would we make it back to land?
is this just an ironic pause in the inevitable egregious battle yet to come?

time would tell. 
time always tells. 
never trust time with a secret.

                          time would tell
                                      after all
                      that is all we have 
                                  us humans 
                                              time 
                                               and then..


June 2015
Armand






Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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The Devil Made Me Do It

It had been a long night, an hour drive just to be with my sister. One must stay in touch with family; it’s the right thing to do. I don't even know what movie we saw. Here she was again in all her glory whining, and whimpering, about her conditions. Confined space is the wrong place to be with someone bi-polar. Sometimes, I think the family should mark her eruptions on a calendar, maybe there’s a pattern? She was hungry; her blood sugar was low; hurry, get her home! 

“Geez Sis, if my life depended on carrying peanuts, I'd make damn sure I had them with me!” I my replied. 

the sleet fell
through the headlight beams:
fog inside

“You bleeping self-centered witch!” Her reply.

And on and on, enumerating all my faults at the top of her lungs. Her face was darting back and forth across the stick shift like a viper. The weather was so bad, and her screaming so loud; I almost drove us up a telephone pole. The back road to her house was serpentine through a pinewood, and over narrow, slick, bridges. Well, about fifteen minutes into my dissection, I burst a gut.

“You need to have some control. Your diet is horrible. I wish you could see yourself eating. Your plate might as well be a trough.” There now I’ve gone and done it, I thought to myself. The little devil in me was all smiles. When we pulled into the driveway; she leapt out.

the car door
slams rattling the glass:
eyes wet as rain glass 

It only felt good for a moment. It was true; she did deserve the comment. She’d felt free to butcher me, but, it was wrong to try to hurt her. The momentary release, which felt so good, has given us months of anguish. 


Published in Dead Snakes Magazine Winter 2014




Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

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Grading on the curve


I’ve been told, I deserve so much,
for the work I've done, for the lives I touch.

I would like to say, my dear friend,
what I deserve, is a bitter end!

I have hated, I have snapped,
people I love, I have slapped.

I have lied, I’ve also cheated,
believe it not, I have mistreated.

I have envied, I have stolen,
and many promises, I have broken. 

I’ve been selfish, and I’ve been greedy,
 too many times, I have been a bit sneaky!

I’ve wrongfully punished; and wrongfully accused,
plus for my own gain, I have spitefully used!

I've been so angry, as a sailor I've cursed,
 to be brutally honest, I have done much worse!

I’ve been encumbered, I’ve been a drunk
oh yes, my life was so full of junk!

Even though I knew that it was wrong,
all these things, I did to belong!

If you just met me, you’re probably in shock,
but in a sinful nature, yes, I sure did walk!

Then I met Jesus, I heard his good news,
and how for my sins, he was bruised!

how from the beginning, his love ran deep,
and for my own heart he did weep

For every wrong that I ever did,
he shed his blood, my sins he hid!

Now, I'm FREE; ACCEPTED; and thoroughly WASHED,
and that mean ole’ devil, is surly squashed!

Now he can’t touch me with a 10 foot pole,
for it is written, on God’s holy scroll!

God says, I’m FAVORED and TRULY BLESSED,
Because faith in Jesus, I CONFESSED!

In my spirit, I have been CHANGED.
And in his RIGHTEOUSNESS, I'm REARRANGED!

Now, this might sound too good to be true,
But that’s the GOSPEL, for me and you!

 You still say, we get what we deserve,
Well, I thank you JESUS, for grading on the curve!


Stacey Brown 2-7-14


Copyright © Stacey Brown | Year Posted 2014

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ONE KISS

WITH  JUST ~ONE  KISS

I rise, like fire in your eyes.
Feel the burn, as I discharge my flames.
Like Frankenstein, 
I will make you come to life.
Out of the sea,
I rise like the tide.
Move in slow like the moon,
provoking, your endless passionate doom.
A giant wave you can't control,
sinking you like a ship below.
I'm the fever burning deep inside,
in and out at 105%.
Like a drum beat from the wild west,
I'm the rhythm pressing up against your chest.
Re-sizing the power of the blazing sun,
blistering your complexion till my job is done.   
I'm the force you find in number 8,
a hurricane, destroying at an atomic rate.
I'm the south and north pole,
the magnet that attracts your glow.
The mass that holds your gravity in place.
a body that magnitudes the smile on your face.
I'm the exhaust, 
running through your system. 
I'm dangerous, and beautiful like the open shores,
One kiss will lead you wanting, more and more.

Passing like the wind,
holding on to my bliss, 
Kiss after Kiss.

Lip against lip, 
Be prepared for all of this.

by;p.d.


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011

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Word Squirrel

Rodents can be loquacious
That includes your average gerbil
They love to prattle, chat and blather
They really are quite verbal

Hamsters are talkative too
Just as garrulous as can be
With running mouth and wheel to match
They are a sight to see

But I am loath to squander words
Sparing usage is my way
I gather them like so many acorns
Against a rainy day

Yes, word collecting is the passion
Of this precocious squirrel
I garner adjectives, verbs and nouns
Be they singular or plural

The park is fecund land
There a plethora may be found
Vociferous, vehement and vex
I lately scooped up off the ground

The verb tree is prolific
Its discovery, quite a boon
The other day it bestowed upon me
Flaunt, foster and festoon

All along the sidewalks
Concrete nouns lie strewn about
How blithely I did snatch up
A lummox, laggard and a lout

To command a better view
I nimbly scampered up a pole
From this lofty perch I spotted
Wheedle, coax and cajole

Away in the distance
I spied a tempting pile
Lying there for the taking were
Enticing, alluring and beguile

What do I with so much verbiage?
You would be fair to ask
Squirreling away so vast a lexicon
Must prove a mammoth task

The answer lies in my arboreal abode
Where these many words I stash
In alphabetical order they are arrayed
From zealous to abash

In a capricious mood one day
I grouped them by part of speech
Such a cacophony arose from clustering
Banter, badger and beseech

No matter how I sort them
The wasting of words I spurn
Reserved for rarest use I keep
Reticent, laconic and taciturn!

_________________________________

by Brian McClain - Feb 17, 2016


Originally posted Feb 17, 2016
Accidentally deleted Feb 22, 2016
Reposted Feb 22, 2016


Copyright © Brian McClain | Year Posted 2016

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Of Road Rage and the Poetrysoup Profanity Policy

As Joe was biking down the side of the road
He ran across a chap with a dearth of driving skills.  
Or more accurately, the driver almost ran over Joe; 
'Twas one of life’s unwanted thrills.

A spirited exchange ensued between them
About who was in the right.
But this being the delicate poetrysoup,
I’ll keep the language light:

“You fornicating chewer of masculine appendages,” 
Quoth the driver.  “What the fornicating inferno were you doing?”
Replied Joe, “Just following the traffic signs, 
you premenstrual hyena in need of screwing.”

He quipped, “You’re replete with fornicating doo-doo,
My  light was coitally green.”
Quoth Joe, “Alas, your light was not.
And your maternal unit stars in movies obscene.”

Said he, “A shower of gold, is what I’m told, 
May clarify your sight.”
Retorted Joe, “Stay in that car, spawn of Jar-Jar, 
or you’ll be seeing lots of lights.”

“Perhaps remove the telephone pole,” said he,
“From where you store your bowel.”
Quipped Joe, “So I could fire a methane cloud in your direction?”
Oh my, how the driver did howl.

The driver continued.  “I don’t give an airborne 
intimate encounter about you and your bike.”
One thing was abundantly clear,
This man Joe didn’t like.

Joe gave not a rodent’s backside
For this foul troll’s attitude.
Yet the driver felt inclined to continue
with his prattling so rude:

“Consume excrement and expire,
you maternally fornicating 
portion-of excrement consuming
rah-rah blah blah…” He continued bloviating.

Suggested Joe when he finished, “Might I refer you to a friend,
one you clearly need?”
He’s a cranio-proctologist, 
The best around, indeed.”

 “I invite you to  perform an antatomically 
challenging act of self-gratification,” quoth he.
“I ought to apply my foot to your tightly clad posterior
and then everyone will see.”

“While I’m good at riding bikes,” said Joe,
“Flexibility is not my strong suit.”
“So the contortionism is out, 
and I plan to continue my route.”

“And as far as threats go, 
I must say that I’m not very impressed.
I wouldn’t bet your Hollywood looks
on what I sure hope is a jest.”

“In matters of fitness, you clearly lag,” noted Joe.
Which is why you’re in the car, and I’m not.
Thus, I cordially invite you to make a bowel movement
or kindly get off the pot.”

Happily the driver understood the score.
Away he drove with a whine.
Turns out he had to rearrange a sock drawer.
“Too bad, “ thought Joe.  “He talked such a good line.”

Away Joe pedaled into the day,
Whistling a happy tune,
hoping not to encounter such a 
fornicating bowel movement show anytime soon.

3/2/16


Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

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Ghosts of the Sun Dance-Part 1

Ghosts of the Sun Dance

1. The Path

A quest dating back through our history
Surpassing the flesh, a spiritual path
Human endurance, road to mystery
Dark trail winding through the gardens of wrath

It echoes through me, this deep ambition
Half century of miles, lifetime compressed 
Much more than a race, a sacred mission
With light of hardship I hope to be blessed

To outsiders, an act of madness pure
What motivations could compel this feat?
Past limits of human strength to endure
Pushing the body well beyond defeat

Mind and sinews outlasting the firestorm
Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform

2. Sun Dance

Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform
Once, Plains Indians embraced the Sun Dance
Sacred solstice ritual to perform
Life’s rebirth to the sound of drums and chants

Young braves fasting in their preparation
A stout pole connects the lodge to the sun
Days of reveling unite the nation
Dancers’ exhaustion, they seek to outrun

Animal spirits drawn in by the rhythm 
Forked tree with bison’s skull, hooks in their chest
Buffalo, bringer of potent vision 
Delirious dancers complete their quest

The Spirit Quest resounds through history
Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery

3.To Endure and Transcend 

Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery
Japan's “Marathon Monks” of Mount Hiei
The key to their spirit quest victory
To walk a Marathon one hundred straight days

Famed spiritual leader Sri Chinmoy
Believed hearts and spirits could be mended
Through self-transcendence, and he did enjoy
Countless long quests before his time ended

Chinmoy’s best, a fifty day epic quest
A journey thirty-one hundred miles long
Few are those who have ever passed this test
His famous Self-Transcendence Marathon

Darkest night, the gateway to a new morn,
Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn

4. The Spirit Is Willing

Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn
Deepest pain kindling the soul’s ignition 
Follow the path supplicants’ feet have worn
Transformation’s crux, soul transition

Our defenses and walls cannot let in
Sacred blessings of the gods and spirits
Impenetrable, much to your chagrin
They cannot touch your heart if you fear it

Mortification, a tribulation
Humble display of the supplicant’s worth
A spiritual emancipation,
Pain always accompanies any birth

These transitions in few modern nations
Our world, rare rites of initiation

5. The Fall

Our world, rare rites of initiation
Deconstructed, traditions have been burned
Soulless life breeds infantilization
Perpetuating the puer eterne

To make our lives easier is progress, 
Yet soft life an inadequate mantle
We can also suffer when life lacks stress
True transformation is never gentle

Safety, the goal of civilization
Eliminate risk, its increasing role
Safety’s bitter fruit is stagnation
Comfort cannot forge a resilient soul

Building true human vitality starts
With substance to satisfy questing hearts

6. Aimlessness

With substance to satisfy questing hearts
We dream to build greatness from the humble
Miseducation, meaninglessness start
Intrepid young souls questing for trouble

Drawn to drugs and gangs, tobacco and booze
No deep satisfaction do they contain
Oft mistaken for paying adult dues
But lead instead to spiritual chains

Youthful misadventures, trouble and blues
Sterile environment will generate
Tribal belonging they mark with tattoos
Clumsy efforts to self-initiate

Conquered world without initiations
Life’s road of genuine tribulations

7. Warrior’s Quest

Life’s road of genuine tribulations
Awaits our youth, whether they are prepared
Or not, we note with building frustrations
Future leaders, we see grow up impaired

The warrior within’s heartfelt yearning
A righteous cause in which to do battle
Meanwhile, the subway turnstiles are turning
Young champions doing time as cattle

Quests can be found for the searching young soul
Alas, the focus of education
Not on the development of the whole
But fashioning subjects of this nation

The challenge of living with one’s whole heart
Yielding to those who have mastered the art

5/19/16
Copyright by Author
For contest: Heroic Crown of Sonnets
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Syllables confirmed by howmanysyllables.com


Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

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MY AFRICA, UNITE TO REWRITE HER STORY

Africa; the land of great ancient myths
With culture diversified, but united mythos.
Traced to bear the ancestry of man
With the found evidence of modern humans.

Africa; like a rule of dynasty bestrides the equator
And encircles diverse unending climate sector
Stretching in awe-inspiring from the North Temperate Zone
Exuding the composite satellite imagery to the Southern pole.

Africa; a resource-rich and second-largest continent
With abundant natural resources that makes it pertinent
To the international community, especially the West
Such that they always want her to be their conquest.

Africa; they much talk about her in the global arena
But always present a mirror image of her aura.
They envy her diamonds, gold, coal, cocoa, and crude oil
That they glow while she mangles herself in turmoil.

Africa; whose stories are always told in a horrible manner
And images portrayed like all she holds is poverty and hunger.
But we know Africa is fascinating, invigorating, and amazing
With her azure clouds and vivid green lands that are unending.

Africa; embossed in awe moist grayness and magnificent mountains
With swirling long-lasting waterfalls stimulating her fountains
And inter alia scenic view of hills and crystal beaches
That marvels the tourists, and geologists see her as a peach.

Africa; muddled in kleptomania that has left her in wanton hardship
And her people glued to delusions that wash up their craftsmanship
Such that they often let her down by being unable to see
The aura of mystery in her versatile resources given by nature for free.

Africa; still muddling through despite the variegated challenges she faces
Needs her people to be well articulated and embrace with a game face
The clarion call that the time is long overdue to unite to rewrite her stories
For only Africans can tell better the untold stories about Africa’s histories.

Africa; I look at the east, west, north, central and south
I hear; and I see the youths strutting; and yelling for change in loud shouts
For they’re tired of bad governments, rebels, militants, genocide and warring
For their future is not of hatred, food crisis, diseases, but devoid of suffering.


Copyright © Chuma Okonkwo | Year Posted 2013

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Mario and Luigi: The Untold Story

(Submitted to Heather's Famous Couples/Duos contest. I hope you all like!)  :)

“Save me, Mario & Luigi!”

As they both read the Princess’ distress call,
Written in dark cherry lipstick on his walls
“Mama-Mia, I just painted this damn thing”, Luigi whined.

They ride off into smiling clouds’ horizon
Knocking out hopeless Goombas & misunderstood Turtle shells
Rapidly exhaled hustles over flagpoles and grassy valleys
To see who will capture her 1st kiss...and NOTHING MORE

Towards that immense castle in the sky,
They climbed against its walls like two dogs in heat for the 1st time

Into un-screened window archways, they dive in
Their eyes stare threateningly against the Dinosaur-Lizard cross-breed reject

Mario & Luigi begin dropping mushrooms to see stars and taste invincibility.

But, like this battle, it only lasted 10 seconds!

For out from the Onyx darkness, a new hero emerged
Green, not with envy, but of Greek god magnificence
And a strut that would make a pole dancer jealous

He struck down with such brute force, tearing down the gates of Heaven & Hell
Jesus & Lucifer were pissed

It was Yoshi the dinosaur!

With one fell swoop & a high pitched Braveheart-style cry,
He starts dropping eggs like he’s been ovulating for days
Tossing them with such focus & epic awesomeness against his enemies
Knocking them down one by one

He gracefully sweeps up the Princess, staring down towards his enemies
In a condescendingly lifted face, places an old-school Boombox on the ground
With loud decibels of MJ’s “Don’t stop ‘til you get enough!”,
Yoshi pulls out & drops the mic, embracing gravity’s last word

The Princess devilishly smiles at her new green hero and rides him into the sunset.

Game over.

©Drake J. Eszes


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

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A Christmas Snow

It is Christmas Eve, all preparations for the day are done,
My hand grabs the doorknob as I step out to take a stroll,
On this peaceful night the village is silent, and I see no one,
Walking under the warm glow of a decorated streetlight pole.

I stand and gaze at the windows of the house next door,
Where a tree glows with bubble lights and tinsel strands,
Three stockings holding wishes, await over the fire's roar,
A scene straight from a dream, so wonderful and grand.

Glancing upwards, as the clouds glide across the moon,
Silver stars are out mingling with the drifting snowflakes,
A sight to enjoy here and now, for morning will be here soon,
A beautiful Christmas memory, deep in my heart to take.

Only one car comes up the street, as I walk along our lane,
Just a friendly snowman is there to greet me with a hello,
I stop, adjust his top hat, and reposition his pipe and cane,
This cold-hearted man has made a child smile, I know.

My ears lead me to the street corner where carolers sing,
As those old familiar notes drift towards me on the air,
More sounds seem to awaken as the bells distantly ring,
I felt nothing but a warming glow as I was standing there.







Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

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Lady Luck

Lady Luck ~ (the Nonet) 



Tears, shadows that swallow other tears
united and out of control
eyes decompose like soft coal
water, in swimming hole
everglade pistol 
celestial toll
river pole 
dead soul
pain

~~~~~

All
over
again, pause
deep darken jaws
engraved, digging claws
deteriorating flaws 
still alive, eating what was
waste, rain, disabling because
nature lingers, emotional raw


by;~~~

Nonet, 9 lines, 
beginning 9 syllables, then 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 syllable(s) ~ I hope~

for RICK'S contest...


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

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A Totum Pole Ode

.

                                      forever           gazing
                                           cold,    blazing
                                              eyes in the
                                              sky, where
                                             wings of the
                           grain, have weathered many rains…. 
                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~
 deep, fluid etchings, carved in the wood, stetching high over the hood of earth…
   a thunderbird’s wings, perch a lofty plateau, above a graveyard of tales long ago…
     over years, the curious swell, enchanted by spell of legends dwelling here
         
                                   emerging from gold lands 
                                          so far and near
                                          skin and bones 
                                    through windswept loam
                                     thick with thistles, 
                                    with courage and fear
                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                                   a river on their back
                                    and a cloak of home
                                  draped across shoulders 
                                       in a world unknown
                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                      tears ran rivulets on the white man's ground
                   drenched with forgiveness, from a crying sun
                    and the eyes of time, from a tribe now gone
                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~
                                 as wind spins, curls, and winds
                                           around the spine
                                            ~~~~~~~~~
                                   of native vines... unfolding
                                          old tribal codes
                                             ~~~~~~~~ 
                                             ~~~~~~~~
                                             ~~~~~~~~        
                                         stories are told with
                                        each turn of the pole...

                                        in the totum pole ode
                                              ~~~~~~~
                                              ~~~~~~~
                                              ~~~~~~~









Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011

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Life Is Like A Maypole

Spring bows to thrill of cayenne summer,    
dreams spiced in youthful glow come May.
Bright ribbons wake my bare feet’s slumber. 
Spring bows to thrill of cayenne summer!
Rainbow pleats dance, no clouds encumber 
my twirling limbs, life's weaved sashay. 
Spring bows to thrill of cayenne summer,
dreams spiced in youthful glow come May!

Spring sighs with age come broaching summer,
blue tears, red smiles ‘round pole in May.
Life's colors flow from gold to umber.  
Spring sighs with age come broaching summer! 
And shall I join wind’s lively number
or watch bright ribbons twist and play?
Spring sighs with age come broaching summer,
blue tears, red smiles ‘round pole in May!


written 2/5/15


Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

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A Most Irish Fairy Tale - Merry Christmas to All

It is not just Santa Claus who we meet in cold December— 
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect 
With luscious long coal black curly hair far down on her back 
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with beaming

Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and 
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of polar bear skins 
With a glossy coat sprinkled with pearls and diamonds . . . .

Out of the woods she comes so quiet in the night’s fresh snow 
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully 
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with angelic guard 
The secret is that beautiful Carolina talks the animals’ languages 
The birds they play in all its splendor fine without sorrows 
They fly while Carolina keeps watch carefully on the horizon 

Falling snow now dazzling Christmas in a ball circle most brilliant 
While there is a frozen frosted sprinkling silver in the mist shining sun
Oh so!! Wonderful to behold as the Spirit of Christmas comes alive . . . .

The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and 
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud
And the all the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his red nose so beautiful and oh so bright—
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children just like sweetly wishing little voices wonderful in dreams
With those singing, tunes a dancing light appears so wondrous 
While planes from all over the world begin landing with cargo
And one each day with loads of letters from good little children

And Santa Claus begins calling the elfin troops into action while
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work as they are much tougher
But the old fighting Irish in them showing their softer side all the 
While with a drop of the old fiery dew to keep them warm smiling 
Like the very wee little Devil in them - mischievous and all . . . . 

They do all the heavy work for the elves as they have more of a spring
In their step while almost bouncing on the tip of the their toes like 
Little jumping springs so full of boundless wonder and energy and  
Then day after day the letters keep arriving and landing at the North Pole 
And they begin working like mad and very busily in the North Pole factory

While Santa checks the letters of all boys and girls through a secret window 
And when he shakes it he sees through the mist in a glass bubble of the
Christmas treats while hurriedly calling together all of his Reindeer . . . .
The sound of hooves on the snow saddles up the sleigh he is very slim 
To start off while all his helpers are loading up and he flicks the reins 

And the bells start ringing and - in a flash of magic dust in spirit sings of 
The ground waving he bade Mrs. Claus a very fond and loving farewell
And off he goes in a flash of light Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! echoing in the distance 

Each chimney sliding down he eats the food throwing some to the Reindeer 
Treats left after the night's over he feels so fat eating so much he heads back 
Home to the North Pole while smiling so content at the children’s happiness 
And ringing in his ears filled with golden smiles and wishing everyone a very 
Merry Christmas he falls asleep after Mrs. Claus makes him a hot chocolate
Really tired but easing his weary bones year after year he loves his job very
Much so and all of the sheer delight that his efforts and those of Mrs. Clau
And his elfin helpers and the joy and fun of the Reindeer bring to all children
On this Earth!! 
                     Merry Christmas to All!!



Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 

Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)


Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2014

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The Evil Eye

The evening's now descending and the city starts to die,
the shadows lurk amongst us 'neath the looming Evil Eye
and as we gaze around us and begin to wonder why
we sometimes hear the rumble of the powers in the sky.

They're looking down upon us now, to conquer and control,
and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole
or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole.
Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not their goal.
 
If someone dares to whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom
or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom,
the Evil Eye will squint a bit and pierce with poisoned plume,
thus cursing all those carefree dreams to wither in the womb.

The Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam
and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb
while peons (pinioned, mind and soul) stray  never far from home,
with faces 'neath the iron boot, thrust deep below the loam.

The Evil Eye pries everywhere, a servitor of Kings,
intruding on the puppet people dangling on their strings,
cementing secrets of their souls on spider webs with wings,
the gallows' hatch aflutter while the headless horseman swings.

Disguising pain of purgatory, far-flung distant shores
(on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors
and inquisition water-boards that wage their holy wars,
while sandmen drape our eyes with dust, with rainbow metaphors.

The screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern
to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold and taciturn,
so peasants pass, parading by, to fill the golden urn
with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn.

While phantoms fade and reappear within the city sprawl
the gloom (adorned with ancient eyes which spike the livid pall)
pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl
of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall.

We know the party's over for there's little left to eat
and all the learned scholars, lean, now beg upon the street -
the Evil Eye's observing thoughts and other things discreet,
the signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat

While eyeless seers scan the skies and mourn the heretofore,
six legless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor,
eight earless men are drowned beneath the ocean's silent roar,
ten tongueless men begin to taste the never-evermore.

When hope becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive?
Will doves appear above us all? Or drones to guard the hive
while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive
to gut the gale below them? Will the Evil Eye survive?


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2014

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Stunning Revelations from Ancient Maps

Professor Hapgood’s studies on ancient maps were fixed
Einstein said his theories should be added to history’s mix
Perhaps it proved too big a leap for other minds to take
But his ancient culture findings, Hapgood would not forsake

6000 BC, before Egypt’s pyramids were built
Millennia before Pompeii’s lava had been spilled
Or small fishing boats hugged the Mediterranean Coast
And Columbus’s “daring” voyage was not even close

Ancient seafarers drew with astounding accuracy
Maps of the world they once knew, the fishermen’s legacy
Antarctica sans ice and closer to the equator
The Mid-Atlantic Ridge once an above-sea sky scraper

Siberia touching Alaska with no Bering Strait
(Palin could have seen Russia without snow from her back gate)
 Cuba, England, Sweden, too, on these maps appear clearly
But Sweden’s fully glacial; England’s blanket an ice sheet

If we believe Hapgood, a civilization once thrived
Thousands of years before language; maps keep memories alive
Technology to chart the seas was lost in ancient times
With latitude and longitude measurements quite refined

Sea kings’ cities may have succumbed during the last Ice Age
Surviving nations lost their skill when history turned a page
Geography to be found again when the Earth had healed
“Discoverers” reinvented the forgotten ship’s wheel

Magellan, perhaps not the first to sail around the globe
Admiral Byrd not the first man to visit the South Pole
Spirits from a colony of seafarers can be found
From deep beneath Antarctic ice, they try to spread the word

But laugh they must as scientists forecast global warming
And man attempts to alter life and heed their dire warning
Shifting poles?  Natural cycles!  Men would be well advised
To study the maps Hapgood found and open their closed minds 



To learn more about Professor Charles Hapgood’s map studies and the comments made by 
Albert Einstein, you can visit http://www.crystalinks.com/crustal.html.


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

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Bringing in the May

This sunny morn, a maying we will go.
We seek bright blooms for garlands and our queen.
The best month of the year is here, and so
this sunny morn, a maying we will go
into the woods where wildest blossoms grow.
With baskets in our hands; through fields of green,
this sunny morn, a maying we will go.
We seek bright blooms for garlands and our queen.

We’ll weave a pole with ribbons round and round.
the queen presiding over all we do,
We‘ll dance and sing with a most joyful sound.
We’ll weave a pole with ribbons round and round,
and garlands we will make from flowers found,
and for the queen, a crown we’ll fashion too.
We’ll weave a pole with ribbons round and round.
the queen presiding over all we do.

A king there must be, and he is the one
who races fastest to the Hawthorne tree.
My eye has been upon the baker’s son!
A king there must be, and he is the one
who’ll stay with me until the day is done.
You see, the queen they chose this day is me!
A king there must be, and he is the one
who races fastest to the Hawthorne tree.

(Can't believe I accidentally deleted this one after putting it up the other day)


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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Happy Pill Plea Poem and a Story

I reach out for my happy pill
To make the raging pain be still
My day with pseudo cheer to fill
To live, I need to find the will

And so I gulp a higher dose
To try to get out of “morose”
To say goodbye to my remorse
This way myself I diagnose

When day is done, I go to bed
My little heart so full of dread
That something’s wrong inside my head
Perhaps it’s best if I were dead

When morning comes, feet hit the floor
And then I think, “Must I face more?”
I’ll stay behind my bedroom door
To live this life is just a chore

A happy pill is not for you
But still at times I wish you knew
The need for meds for me is true
So here is what you have to do

Compassion is my deepest need
It helps from sadness to be freed
It is the bandage when I bleed
So make kindness your daily creed

Eileen

The following story is from the internet. It is not my own creation. That is why I have it in quotation marks. 

“A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you. “Why?” asked the bearer. “What are you ashamed of?” “I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don’t get full value from your efforts,” the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, “As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.” Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it somewhat. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.”


Moral: Each of us has our own unique flaws.  We’re all cracked pots.  In this world, nothing goes to waste.  You may think like the cracked pot that you are inefficient or useless in certain areas of your life, but somehow these flaws can turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

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Black-Water Blues

Diz Cajonne dey call Thibodaux
Paddle dis girl in his Pirogue
Den he see dem unmention
Dad tool stan at attention
She slap him stick HARD doncha' know

Dad pole shrink awful fas he yell whoa!
Sha, whad did you swat dad ting fo?
Now it at parade rest
Like diz bird in a nest
She-say-"I-scared-a'-dem-SNAKE-buddy-ohh!"

PD's contest


Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2012

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Goodbye, Good Riddance! (Co-written with James Fraser)

With no toilet seats carelessly left propped up
Oh, now I can be such a comfortable pup
Please take your Playboys straight out that open door
Then shut it quickly; I can take no more!
 
    Be gone with you, take all your shoes
    Your hairspray, make-up and your girly blues
    Three weeks of the month you loved me fair
    For the other week, I lived in fear
 
MY shoes?  Why you foul beast!  Your odor eaters
Didn't work!  Your smelly boots rest in sewers
Where they belong with that greasy hair goo
That left ugly stains on pink pillows once new
 
    Your pants were too tight, I couldn't get them off
    I can now wear my own; no longer you'll scoff
    And as for your cooking my health has improved
    Your name on the rent book, phew! finally removed
 
The credit card tab from your pub is gone now, too
That hussy barmaid can deliver it to you
And your shavings that clogged up my bathroom sink
Will be mailed to your mistress fast as you can blink
    
    At least she knew how to look after a man
    In bed with you was like a flash in the pan
    At least barmaid Betty purred when this Highlander taunted
    She was sensuous, delectable and she knew what she wanted
 
I'll remember you most when viewing pond scum
You sure were a loathsome son of a gun
I'm leaving this pit, too, so what the heck?
I'll send a new address for the alimony check
 
     You'll get your money like you earned it before
     Dancing naked on the pole in the floor
     I took you in, clothed, cared and fed
     But it wasn't me that was in your bed


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

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Beaten not Forgotten

For BATTER or worse!
 
Tired of facing this bat-less ball
My life tied up and beaten to a pole, 
like the color black, the pain is endlessly
Facing life with no possibility
Facing life's judgment
The envy of all matters
A slave to my grave, with no redemption
Gathering the lies and insults
More powerful than a whip on my back
A trap with no way to disown and burn the tree
Falling far from - turnover tracks
Forgetting who I am, 
feeling the flaws of my abnormality
Finding comfort in a noose
Suffocated by what seems to be dry air 
Tired of living a life under self-brutality
Dying slow, darkness down a new path
Now I see, there's no escape

The more I see, the more I feel 
Hell's got my  running plate
My Beautiful beat but never forgotten soul
That's how my story unfolds
 
~ S ~


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010

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JESTER

           JESTER   *''(] :-)

The best days come round and round
Follow the around the world
A Jester you are the crown
A Jester among the crowd
Searching for life from pole to pole!
A professional when it comes to clown
You got the soul to let it roll
Your too clever to hold a frown
Your parole has lost your control
A smile is all you know how to expand
You run - you play - you dance
Implanting a moment, so grand
Lifting the spirit with just one glance.
You are like a substance in high demand
You are the Queen to a blind romance
You stole the heart of a Nobel man
Jester we are at the feet of your command
Parted from the King, who does not understand
The crowd eating from the palm of your hand
No one knows what jokes you got planned
LADY QUEEN YOU HOLD THE SOUL OF A JESTER
Suited up in  pinkish - purple - green polyester
Everyone bowing to you where you stand
Excitement towards the Queen, who plays the Jester
Jerking the kingdom of her land
Jester you play the role of the best mind molester!! 
*''(]:-)

SKAT


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010